master fisherman of the ponds, of The fishermen's huts
“I pull the carp and pike from the Vidlak pond and sell them for honest coin. I know every mudbank here, and it is my hard work that keeps us respectable.”
Things John had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The Hungarians marched past the shop today. They ate heavily and paid lightly. A master fisherman ought not be handed a few dirty coppers for the finest pike in the water. I kept my antler-handled knife close by, lest they take a fancy to it. Christ's wounds, these soldiers will eat us all out of house and home if the king does not return.
Nota scribaeThe man pantomimed gutting a fish while dictating this, nearly catching my sleeve.
the eve of the Ascension, at None
Roger was useless at the nets this morning. His head is entirely elsewhere. He says he was working the far side of Vidlak pond, but the traps there were barely touched. If the castle steward hears we are slacking, he will take his coin to another. A boy must learn obedience if he is to inherit a thriving trade.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
I caught a lad trying to handle the purse at the stall today. I told him straight, no one holds the silver groschen but me. A man must control his livelihood. If Avice were here, she would have smoothed his ruffled feathers, but I have no patience for it. We must maintain our standing in the parish.
St Gregory's day, at Sext
I hear whispers of that charcoal burner's daughter again. Mary, they call her. A penniless vagabond from the woods beyond the Apollonia rocks. I will not have my family name dragged into the mud by such a match. A tradesman's daughter in Tachov with a proper dowry is what we need. This nonsense must end before it is talked about.
She is not a vagabond. You have not even seen her!
We are honest folk in the woods, master fisherman. Your son knows that, even if you do not.
Nota scribaeHe spoke slowly, measuring his words, though his hands shook with anger.
Candlemas, at Terce
Woke long before the sun to inspect the hemp nets for tears. The water was freezing when we hauled the traps. It is a hard, cold life, and it has been colder these last winters without Avice. She was the hearth of this family. I look at the empty bench by the fire and feel the sting of it every day.
I miss mother too. She would not want us arguing over the nets all the time.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
If you let me take the catch to Tachov, we could sell it where there are fewer soldiers.
I will not have you wandering the roads alone, and you know why.